


Asunder

by TristansGirl



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-06
Updated: 2011-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:37:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristansGirl/pseuds/TristansGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kinkmeme. The prompt was Tommy/MC Non-con. Just that. I tried to do my best with it</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He'd been flirting.

Harmless.

Fun.

It was what he did, with both boys and girls. It made them feel good. Made him feel good.

It had seemed fun, harmless. Walking outside with this man, near his car, near the outskirts of the lot.

But now the man has him pushed up against the car, and the man's hand is gripping his crotch. Hard. And this isn't very fun any more.

Tommy pushes at the man, trying to twist his body away. "Hey man, sorry. I'm not into guys. Sorry."

This should be the end, Tommy thinks. A gay guy will always back off if you tell them you're straight. Always. It's going to be ok now.

Except it isn't. The guy's moving forward, not back. His hand gripping tighter, the other suddenly on Tommy's throat.

"Bullshit. You're a fucking queer. I could see it a mile away."

Tommy's adrenaline spikes, anger mixing with fear. He pushes hard, his own hands swatting the stranger's away. What was his name, anyway? Matt? Mike?

"Get the fuck off me."

The man is larger, has the advantage. Not as drunk. Stronger. Hand back at Tommy's throat, he squeezes, slams Tommy's head back against the metal of the car. The pain explodes in his head, stars littering his vision.

More adrenaline. Pure fear now.

"Fucking tease," the man whispers against his ear. Mike? Mark? "Fucking tease. I know you want this."

"No." The word sticks in Tommy's throat. Hard to talk when your windpipe is being crushed. He tries to move the hand, gets a fist slammed across his mouth for his efforts.

Another.

Another.

Blood slicks down his chin. Down past his throat. He swallows it, chokes. Tries to yell. Shout.

Help. There has to be someone. This isn't actually happening. This can't be happening. He was having fun.

Flirting. Harmless.

But the guy's hand is fisting in his hair, dragging him the short way to the bushes.

Bushes.

Camouflage.

Where no one see it happen. No one will help. If they make it to the bushes . . . if they make it to the bushes.

More adrenaline. Pure fear now. Tommy kicks and lashes out.

Shouts.

Too late.

Too late.

The man. Mark? Mitch? The man grabs him, throws him the last two feet. Tosses him into the camouflage.

Tommy lands hard, loses his breath. Tries to catch it, ignore the flaring pain. Move. He has to move. He has to . . .

But the man is already here.


	2. Chapter 2

He fights.

Of course he fights. He punches and kicks, the feeling of satisfaction solid in his gut when he connects.

But the man fights too. Stronger, bigger, not as drunk. He lands a solid kick to Tommy's ribs, the steel-toed boot pushing Tommy's breath from him, pain bright and harsh.

It becomes push and pull, the man atop Tommy. Tommy struggling to struggle. Barely able to.

He wonders where his friends are. Is anyone looking? Does anyone care? Why is no one helping him?

Then the man - what the fuck is his name, the fuck is his name - picks something up from the ground, slams it against Tommy's head.

He loses time. Seconds. Minutes. He will never know.

He wakes up on his stomach, arms pinned underneath his own body. Blood trickles down into his eye. He feels it in his hair, sticky and hot. His stomach lurches along with the throbbing in his head.

The man is on top of him. Inside of him. His body rocks forward in time with the man's thrusts.

"This is what you wanted, you little faggot. Practically begging for it."

The man whispers it low and deep into his ear. He sounds so sure, Mark or Mike or Mitch. He sounds so sure, like he knows something that Tommy doesn't.

"Please . . ."

Why he's pleading, he doesn't know. It's just a word. Something that spilled from his lips. It means nothing.

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up."

"Please stop."

The man grips his hair, shoving his head hard against the ground. Bile rises but he manages to keep it down.

He doesn't fight. He doesn't move.

He can feel his phone vibrating against his leg, down where his jeans are pooled around his ankles.

Someone is looking for him. Maybe? Please.

The man finishes with a low grunt, one hand on Tommy's hip, the other fisted in his hair.

One last kick, his final goodbye.

"Fucking bitch."

Tommy opens his eyes, lies still for a very long time. Numb, mouth open and slack, eyes unseeing. This didn't happen. How could it have happened? This doesn't happen.

The phone vibrates again and Tommy shifts, biting down a groan.

And he remembers.

It was Mason. Mason had bought him a drink. Mason had told him he was pretty.

He'd been flirting.

Harmless.

Fun.


	3. Chapter 3

He moves, only because he has to. He would rather lie still, let his mind sink into oblivion, but the phone . . .

The phone won't stop vibrating. They're calling him. Texting him. Maybe looking for him.

If they find him like this . . .

No.

He won't let that happen. Can't let them see him like this. Can't ever let them know.

He moves slowly, the pain shocking him with its suddenness. It's everywhere, everything hurts and his stomach lurches again with it. He can't hold the nausea back this time and he retches onto the dirt below him. It only makes everything hurt worse and his head . . . his head feels like it's splitting open and now he's crying because it fucking hurts and this isn't supposed to happen, this wasn't supposed to happen . . .

Fun.

Harmless.

Fuck. Oh god . . .

He's crying, the sounds slipping past his lips those of a wounded animal, whimpers and half-shuttered moans.

But he doesn't stop moving. It hurts so bad, but he doesn't stop. He pulls his pants up and pushes himself to a kneeling position. He adjusts his shirt and pushes himself to a standing position. He brings a hand up to his face and feels the blood drying against his skin. He's trembling, shaking apart, but somehow he still moves, limping away from the bar.

Away from his friends. They can't see him like this. They won't see him like this.

Away from the man who did this. Mason. His name was Mason. If Mason comes back and touches him again . . . no, no, no.

The hotel. He'll go to the hotel, clean up.

His mind latches onto that idea and won't let it go. He'll catch a cab. Go to the hotel. Clean up. Go to bed. If anyone asks, he'll say he got in a fight. No big deal. You should have seen the other guy. No big deal.

His mind stutters on that thought, and a bitter laugh turns into a sob.

One more buzz of his cell phone. He pulls it from his pocket, looks at the display.

Adam.

No. Not Adam.

Never Adam.

Adam can't ever know. Ever. Ever.

He shoves the phone back into his pocket, hand trembling. He's shaking apart.

He tucks his head against his chest and walks away.


	4. Chapter 4

Tommy makes it back to the hotel, face hidden by his hoodie, drawn up tight around his head.

It takes . . . so long. So long to find a cab, so long to drive to the hotel, so long to make it to his room.

So long, with the feel of Mason on his body, Mason's scent against his skin. It's too much. Too much for too long and all he can think about is getting to the room. A long shower. A hot shower.

And then sleep.

And then forgetting.

He unlocks the hotel room door and steps inside, the relief of finally being safe and alone dragging him nearly to his knees.

But there's something wrong.

The lights are already on.

 _No_

The lights are on and Monte's standing in the middle of the room, phone to his ear.

Tommy steps back. Away. He needs to get away.

Not safe here.

Not safe.

Too late. Monte's already moving toward him.

"Yeah, he's here. He just walked in the door, Adam, I don't know."

Tommy's back hits the wall.

No escape.

Not safe here. Fuck, not safe here.

"Yeah. You coming up? Yeah, cool. Yeah."

And then Monte's coming toward him.

Angry. He's so angry. And Tommy wants to disappear. He wants to run. He wants to die.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Monte grabs Tommy's arm and pulls him to the center of the room and somewhere deep inside, Tommy knows that Monte's not mad, just worried, his mom always did the same thing. When he broke his leg, his mom did the same thing.

It still hurts, though.

It still hurts, so he pulls away. But just like his mom, Monte sees it soon enough.

"Tommy?"

Tommy shakes his head. He can't do much more, just shakes his head.

 _Please go away. Please go away._

He thinks it, but he can't say it. He can't say it because he'll break.

"Tommy?"

And then Monte's pushing back his hood, and he can't hide anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

Tommy hears Monte say, "Jesus Christ" and then he's gone, running to open the door.

It's Adam. Of course it's Adam. Of course.

Tommy groans, bending over, arms crossing over his middle to hug himself tight.

Not Adam. Not Adam. Not Adam.

He doesn't realize that he's saying it out loud, muttering it over and over again until he feels a hand on his shoulder. When he looks up, it's to see Adam and Monte, kneeling before him, faces creased with worry.

"Do you want Adam to go?"

Tommy nods. Yes. Yes, he wants Adam to go. He wants them both to go. Yes.

He misses the look that passes between Monte and Adam, he misses the hurt that darkens Adam's face as he turns to leave. Misses it all as he huddles in on himself once more.

"Tommy, what the hell happened to you?"

He lowers his gaze, fingers picking at non-existent thread on his jeans. "Got in a fight."

"A fight? You call this a fight? You've got a head wound, Tommy."

He continues to pick at his jeans. He won't look up. He can't. He can't look Monte in the eye, can't take the chance that Monte will know.

"You've should've seen the other guy." He says it without thinking, the words slipping out before he even realizes what he's saying.

"You think this is funny?"

Tommy shakes his head. Slowly, because it hurts. It hurts to move.

Not funny.

No.

Not funny at all.

"Tommy, you're part of a huge tour now. You can't get into fights, man. You've gotta walk away, you know? Sometimes you gotta just walk away."

He shakes his head again, picks at more thread that isn't there. "Couldn't."

Then Monte's hands are on his thighs and he's very close, leaning in.

Too close.

Too close now.

Tommy flinches, draws back.

"Tommy, was this . . . did you get mugged? Did you get jumped?"

Tommy's about to shake his head no, when he hears another voice.

"Was this a bashing, Tommy?"

No. Fuck. Adam's here. When the fuck did Adam get back in here?

"No. Please. I just want to go to bed, ok?"

Monte draws back, standing up as Adam comes near. "Can't let you do that, man. You've gotta go to the hospital."

"No. No hospital," he whispers.

But they're not listening to him. He has no voice, just like before. Before with Mason. He'd asked Mason to stop. He hadn't listened either.

Adam pulls out his cell phone. "I'll tell Lane to get a car."

Tommy breaks then, sudden and unexpected. He surges up and pushes at the first person he touches, maybe Adam, maybe Monte, he doesn't know. Doesn't care.

He knows that he's angry. He's scared. He hurts. And he just wants to be alone.

"No! No hospital! No fucking hospital!"

"Tommy . . ."

"Get the fuck out! Just get the fuck out!"

He staggers, falling against someone, he doesn't know who. Doesn't care. Struck by the flaring pain in his body, by the overwhelming nausea rising up his throat.

"Gonna be sick . . . gonna be sick . . ."

The warning is useless, no time for anyone to react. He doubles over, vomits on the carpet, his body heaving helplessly from the force of it. Then he's crying, sobbing, because it fucking hurts, it fucking hurts so bad. His skull is splitting in two and his throat is on fire and his very bones aches and the pain there . . . the pain there . . .

It's too fucking much. Too fucking much.

He feels Adam's arms wrap around him, feels Adam's hand against his forehead. "It's ok, Tommy. It's going to be ok, now."

"Just wanna get clean," Tommy says. Still crying. Why can't he stop crying? "Just wanna shower. Please."

"It's ok, Tommy. Sh . . ."

Then, Adam's voice, stronger, not directed at him. Not talking to him anymore. "Call Lane. Tell her to get a car. Tell her that Tommy's hurt bad and we need a hospital."

"Yeah, sure."

Tommy sags against Adam. Still crying. Why can't he just fucking stop?

He doesn't bother trying to argue. He has no voice now.

No one is listening.


	6. Chapter 6

He hears Adam and Monte talking, murmurs that are low and indistinct. Seconds later there's a cool washcloth pressed against his forehead. Adam runs it across his cheeks, wiping at his mouth.

It feels like blessed heaven against his skin.

"Give me a couple minutes alone with him, huh, Monte?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll be right outside, ok?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Tommy hears the door shut, feels when Adam's attention shifts back to him.

"Tommy . . ."

Adam's voice is so gentle, so soft, and that hurts. Somehow that hurts too. He doesn't want that. Doesn't deserve it.

He begins to speak, still crying, his voice coming out in shuddering, gasping breaths. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Adam. I'm sorry."

"Don't say that, honey. You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing."

Tommy shakes his head and grabs a hold of Adam's shirt, twists it in his hand. He can see his own knuckles, bruised and cracked. "My fault. I went with him. He said he had a nice car . . . I went out there to see. I was flirting . . . I was playing . . . I made him think . . ."

Word vomit. He can't stop himself from talking, spewing out his fault in this, his blame.

This is why he hadn't wanted to see Adam. He's never been able to keep anything from Adam.

Adam shushes him, cradles him close. Tommy allows himself to be drawn into his warmth, allowing himself that small comfort.

"So stupid . . . so fucking stupid. My fault . . ."

"Don't. Don't say that. Not your fault, Tommy. None of this is your fault."

Adam's voice sounds funny, odd and thick. Tommy looks up, sees that Adam's eyes are red, tears sliding down his cheeks.

Tommy whispers, "Don't cry."

Adam gives a small laugh, forced and choppy. "Oh, honey. God, honey."

Tommy drops his head against Adam's chest. Seeking that warmth. Seeking that comfort. He doesn't deserve it, all of this his own fault, but he wants it anyway. So selfish, he wants it anyway.

"Tommy, I need to ask you something."

He tries to snuggle in further. He wants to hide. He wants to bore into Adam, push inside of him and hide from what he knows has to be coming.

"No . . . no . . ."

"Did this guy . . . did he . . . touch you?"

Adam's having problems with the words, as if he can't figure out how to string them together. Tommy shakes his head, grabs hold of Adam's shirt. Twists it. Needs to make him stop. Needs to make Adam stop.

"Did he . . . was it . . ." He pauses, voice thicker now. "Jesus, Tommy, I don't know how to ask this. I don't want to ask this, but . . ."

"Don't . . . no . . ."

Adam's voice breaks. "Oh god, he did, didn't he? He hurt you that way, didn't he?"

Tommy won't answer. Can't answer.

No voice.

No more.

He won't answer, but it won't matter. It won't matter because Monte's in the room again. Monte's whispering to Adam.

Adam's whispering back.

And now they're lifting him, holding him between them. Walking him outside.


	7. Chapter 7

Later, in the emergency room's waiting area, Monte sighs and and rests his head in his hands. He wants want to cry, but the tears are being stubborn. They won't fall.

"He was raped?" he asks Adam. Pointless question. He already knows the answer.

"Yeah." Adam worries at his thumbnail. He's been doing this since they arrived.

He isn't even aware of it.

"When he started talking about the shower, I thought . . ." Monte shakes his head. "But I thought, no way. No way. I was reading it wrong."

"I wanted to be wrong. You don't know how fucking bad I wanted to be wrong."

"You think he'll report it? To the cops, I mean?"

Adam bites at his nail, feels the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.

"I don't know. Would you?"

Tommy doesn't hear any of this exchange. He's in his own room, deep within the hospital. There's a nurse collecting evidence from under his nails and she keeps calling him honey and sweetie and and she's being nice to him, so nice and it almost makes him want to cry, but he can't.

There are no tears left.

Not now. Maybe later.

Not now.

"You're doing fine, honey. You're doing fine," she says. "I'm going to take some swabs now, all right? This won't hurt. I just need you to open your mouth." She smiles when he complies. She takes it, quick and he barely feels it.

She's nice. So nice to him.

But what she's doing. It's like walking through hell. It's like having the attack happen all over again.

Once more.

Once more, with feeling.

He nearly giggles at that, manages to hold it back. Wonders if he's losing his mind.

"You're doing great, sweetie."

"Thank you," he whispers. He means it. She's walking him through hell but she's so nice.

"I'm going to take an anal swab now. This one will hurt a little more, but I'll try to be quick, ok?"

He nods, turns his head.

"Ok. Try to relax. Just breathe and try to relax."

He tries. He really tries.

"How much longer?" he whispers. Can't seem to speak above a whisper. Can't seem to get his voice to work.

"Almost done. Almost there." She pauses. "You're being very brave. I know this is hard. You're doing the right thing by reporting this."

He closes his eyes. Thanks her.

She's being so nice.

Even as she takes him deeper into the nightmare.


	8. Chapter 8

They send him home.

Not home though. Not really. Home is far away. Home feels like a hundred lifetimes ago.

They release him. Back to the hotel.

A concussion.

Fourteen stitches.

Two cracked ribs.

Multiple contusions and abrasions.

Moderate bruising with minor tearing.

A prescription for pain medication and anti-inflammatories. Antibiotics.

Pamphlets for sexual assault survivors.

He clutches these last in his hands, crumpling them until someone pulls them away, whispering, low and soothing, that it's all going to be all right.

He gives them up. Doesn't care.

So tired now.

They gave him something, at the hospital, for the pain.

After all the probing, all the prodding, all the pictures, all the swabs and the questions . . . they finally gave him something to take the edge off the hurt.

it works.

He's tired.

Numb.

Feels a little dead inside. But it's better. It's better than when things were too bright, too urgent; all fire and burning and sharp.

"I'll stay with him," Adam says. Not to him. Talking about him, not to him.

He looks around, sees that they're back in the hotel room. He doesn't remember the journey, how they got here.

Things are fuzzy now.

Dull.

Dead.

"Are you sure, Adam? You've got an interview-"

"Cancel it."

And just like that, it's done.

Tommy registers that Lane and Monte are telling him goodnight, giving awkward half-pats at his shoulder as if they're afraid to touch him.

He nods at them. Waits until they leave.

Just him and Adam now.

Just him and Adam.

"Let's get you to bed, huh?"

Tommy shakes his head. Slow-motion. Everything's moving in slow motion. "I wanna shower."

"I don't know if that's a good idea, Tommy."

Tommy looks at Adam, cranes his neck to see. "Why?"

"You can barely stand. What if you fall in there, huh?"

Tommy wraps his arms around his middle. Shivers. "I need to, ok? I just need to get clean."

"You took one at the hospital, Tommy. You just need to sleep."

"Need to shower. Need to."

Silence. Just for a moment. Silence.

"How about a bath? Would that help?"

Tommy nods. Slow. Fuzzy.

A bath. A bath is still clean.

"Yeah."

"Ok. Why don't you sit on the bed and I'll get it ready. Is that ok?" Adam brushes a hand over Tommy's hair, gentle. So gentle, as if Tommy's going to break. No one else will touch him, but Adam will.

Adam will.

He nods. Lowers himself to the bed. Huddles in.

He waits, loses time. Lost in his own head, in his own jumbled, incoherent thoughts.

He looks up when Adam touches his shoulder. Jumps a little.

"Ready?"

Adam helps him walk into the bathroom, helps him with his clothes, peeling them off, one by one. He turns around as Tommy gets fully naked, gives him a hand to climb in to the tub, but doesn't look.

Tommy hisses at the feel of the water against his skin. Just this side of too hot.

Good though. So good.

Clean.

"Do you want me to stay? Should I wait outside?" Adam asks.

Tommy looks up. Slowly. Fuzzier now. Everything so slow.

"Maybe . . . right outside? Is that ok?" He pauses, a flash of something catching in his mind. Was that rude? Is it rude to say that?

"It's not that I don't . . . don't want you here. It's just . . ."

"It's ok, honey, I get it. I'll be right outside. I'm gonna leave the door open and I'll be right there if you need me. Just let me know when you're done, ok? Don't try to get out by yourself."

Tommy watches him go before sinking down into the water.

So good. It feels so good.

He drops his head, feels the start of tears. Feels the disappointment. He thought he was done. He thought he was done crying.

But they come, the tears, as he washes himself.

Slow.

Fuzzy.

Dead.


	9. Chapter 9

Tommy doesn't wake, the drugs and the exhaustion dragging him under deeper than he thought possible.

Doesn't wake until the sun is bright in the sky, its rays streaming through the top of the drawn curtain, peeking out from underneath it.

Things aren't fuzzy anymore. Not dull. Not dead. Things are bright again and there's pain and senses and memory and he hates it. Hates it so much.

Things were better dead. So much better when things were dead.

He feels a hand slide over his.

Adam.

He knows that touch. Knows the feel of his skin.

He turns his head, slow, easy. Turns to see Adam. Sitting on a chair, keeping a safe distance. The same chair that he slept in all night.

"How are you feeling?"

Tommy shrugs, unwilling to give the answer to the question.

How is he feeling?

Like he'd rather be dead.

"I have to go to the bathroom," he says instead. He winces at the sound of his voice, dry like chalk and dust and smoke.

"Do you want some help?"

He shakes his head, avoiding Adam's gaze. He can't even look at Adam. Can't. Unwilling, unable, to see what's in Adam's eyes. Adam's eyes . . . windows to the soul . . . a cliche come to life. And Tommy can't look.

"No, I can do it."

And he tries. He does. But the pain, it takes his breath away when he tries to move. Steals his breath and cripples him and brings tears to his eyes.

"Come on. Just lean on me."

Tommy nods, helpless. Can't make it on his own. Can't even walk ten feet to the bathroom.

Adam leaves him at the door, tells him that he'll be right outside. Tommy thanks him, grateful, keeping his gaze down. Unwilling, unable, to look into Adam's eyes.

He manages not to fall over, gets it done, stops at the sink to wash his hands. Catches sight of his face in the mirror.

A mistake.

A really huge, fucking mistake.

He sees his own face, bruised and swollen and misshapen. He lifts his t-shirt, sees the bruising over the cracked ribs. Looks at his hands. The cuts and scrapes on his hands, on his elbows.

He turns away, unwilling, unable, to see how badly he is broken. He'd smash the mirror if he could. Smash it, disintegrate it, annihilate it.

But he can't. He can barely lift his arms. Can barely move.

So he settles for turning away with a cry, shutting his eyes as if that will make it all disappear.

Adam helps him walk back, helps him slide underneath the sheets.

"Jesus, Tommy. You're shaking. Are you-"

"It hurts," he says, his voice a rasp that is barely above a whisper. "Worse than yesterday."

"The doctor said it would happen, remember? She said that you'd be really sore."

"I guess," he mumbles. "Yeah. I guess."

Still not looking. Still unwilling. Unable.

"Here. It's time for another pill."

Adam slides the pill into Tommy's hand. Helps him drink the water he'd prepared in a glass. Helps Tommy sink down to the pillow.

"What time is it?" Tommy asks.

"Almost one in the afternoon."

His eyes widen. Not quite meeting Adam's. Not quite.

"What are you doing here? You had stuff to do."

Adam shakes his head and places a hand atop Tommy's. So careful. So gentle. "I'll leave in a bit. I just didn't want you to wake up alone."

Tommy closes his eyes, opens them. Looks at Adam. Really looks.

Sees love. Caring. Worry.

No pity.

No judgement.

Adam's eyes . . . windows to the soul.

He turns his hand, linking it with Adam's.

"Can you stay a little bit longer? Just a little?"

"Yeah." Adam gives his hand a small squeeze. "Yeah, Tommy, I can."


	10. Chapter 10

Tommy knows that he has to go.

He knows this.

He knows that his body won't heal on a cramped, bumpy bus. That he needs to be with his family.

He knows.

But it doesn't make it any easier to walk away.

"You don't have to make me go," he whispers. "I won't get in the way, I promise."

Adam grimaces and shakes his head. "Tommy, if I thought . . . you need to be home. You know that."

Tommy drops his head. He doesn't have the strength to nod.

He knows. He does. But it still hurts. It feels like everything is shattering around him. Everything is so wrong, so twisted and broken and he can't lose this. This. His dream. It's all he's ever wanted.

Except he is losing it. It's breaking apart just like everything else.

"You have a place here, whenever you want to come back. A couple weeks, a couple months. Whatever. It doesn't matter."

"I know."

It's a lie.

This goodbye feels like forever. It feels like the end.

"Tommy, please look at me."

Tommy does, his body responding to Adam's voice without hesitation.

"I don't want you to go. If I could keep you here and make you better, I would, but . . . we both know I can't."

Tommy knows this.

He does.

He can see the truth of it in Adam's face, can read it in the way his voice breaks.

"I'm sorry," he says. And he is. So sorry. He knows that he fucked up. Fucked everything up. Ruined everything. Shattered everything.

"Honey, it's not your fault, please don't-"

Adam doesn't finish the sentence. He pulls his hand back to his body, the same one that he'd been reaching toward Tommy.

Until Tommy flinched.

"I'm sorry," Adam says, sounding gutted. Wrecked.

Tommy shakes his head. Doesn't understand what's wrong. This is Adam. Adam won't hurt him. Adam would never hurt him. But the pills have worn off and the thought of being touched . . . the thought of being touched . . .

"No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Adam. I'm so sorry."

"It's ok. I shouldn't have tried to touch you. Sometimes I'm an idiot."

Tommy shakes his head, fighting to stave off what feel like more tears. He wants another pill, wants one so badly, but he's boarding a plane soon. Him and Lane. Back home.

It's where he needs to be.

He knows this.

He does.

"Don't tell everyone till I'm gone, ok?"

"Are you sure you want me to?" Adam asks. "We can stick with the mugging story. I mean, that's what we're telling the press."

"No, it's ok. They're my family too. They should know. Just not until I leave. I can't . . . I don't want them to know until after."

"Of course. Anything you want, Tommy. Anything."

Anything.

Except to be allowed to stay here.

Tommy thinks it. Doesn't say it.

He knows he has to go.

He has to be with his family. He has to give his body time to heal. He has to talk to someone. Therapy? Maybe. He has to decide if he will go to the police, has to decide how far this nightmare will stretch.

He looks to the side, to his suitcase packed on the floor.

He doesn't want to go. God, he doesn't want to go.

"Hey," Adam says, voice so soft Tommy barely hears. "You're gonna come back to me, ok? You will, Tommy. This isn't . . . this isn't permanent. And we'll talk. And we'll text. I'll bother you every fucking day, you'll get so sick of hearing my voice."

Tommy feels the sting of tears but they're not . . . they feel different. This feels different.

"Adam . . ."

"I love you. You know that, right? I love you. And you're going to be ok. And you're going to come back to me."

Tommy nods. He's not sure if he believes everything that Adam is saying, but Adam sounds so sure. And Adam is never wrong. And Adam loves him.

And if Adam says that he's going to come back, then maybe . . . just maybe . . .

If Adam says that he's going to be ok, then maybe . . . just maybe . . .

"You'll call? You promise?"

"Every fucking night, I swear to god."

Tommy moves then, opening up his body, a signal that he hopes Adam will understand.

Adam does.

He brings Tommy close to him, bringing him into a soft embrace. Soft and quick, letting go when Tommy stiffens.

Tommy knows he has to go.

But maybe . . .


	11. Chapter 11

He lasts nearly three weeks.

Nearly three weeks before he picks up the phone, hits the familiar speed dial key.

"I need to come back."

"Tommy . . ."

"Adam, please. I need this."

"It hasn't been very long. Are you sure?"

He rubs at his eyes, feels the edge of a scar cutting across his temple. "Yeah. I can move around now and the bruises are almost gone." He looks across the room to the mirrored closet. Sees the pale yellow of those bruises, remembers when they were at their worst.

"The makeup'll hide them."

"What about the therapy? You promised you'd go."

"I have been." He grips the phone tight, struggling with a sudden urge to snap at Adam, to ask him if this is the fucking inquisition. He breathes through it, recognizes it for what it is.

A mood swing. Just a mood swing.

Surges of anger that come and go.

He breathes through it. Wills himself to get through it.

"And I'll go back after tour,” he says, biting the words off, one by one. “I'll finish then."

There's silence. A brief, stark moment of silence that Tommy rushes to fill. "The doctor said it would be a good thing."

"She did?"

No.

It's a lie. The doctor had said that it could be a good thing.

But Adam doesn’t have to know that.

"Yeah. So . . . can I?"

He’s begging. Hates that he’s begging.

But he needs this so bad.

He needs something else to take up space in his thoughts. Something other than the feel of Mason’s hands.

Something other than the sound of Mason’s grunts behind his ear.

Anything other than the feel of packed dirt and rocks beneath his body.

Anything other than the memory of feeling helpless and afraid.

“Ok,” Adam says. “If your doctor says it’s ok and you’re ready, then yeah. Of course you can come back.”

Tommy closes his eyes, turns away from the mirror. He can’t stand to look for too long. Can't stand to look at what he's become.

Besides, maybe it won’t matter anymore.

He’s going back to Adam. He’s going back to where he should have been all along.

He’s going to stop thinking about the bruises.

The scar.

The nightmares.

He runs his hand along the scar, doesn’t even realize it until his fingers catch on the raised skin.

He shuts his eyes tight, trying to hide from the memories. Always the same fucking memories.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you, Adam.”


	12. Chapter 12

It was a mistake to tell Adam to tell everyone else.

He knows that now.

Too late.

Their faces, all pity and worry.

Their voices, too soft, too quiet.

Like they’re afraid that he’ll break. Like he’s fragile.

He used to be one of them. His life charmed. A member of their family. He used to belong.

Now he’s an outsider.

A freak.

A victim.

He can feel the weight of their stares on his back, crushing him like a rock.

Can feel the weight as Adam takes him aside, pulls him onto his bed at the back of the bus.

Adam holds his hand but keeps a safe distance. Respectful.

“Are you ok?” he asks.

Tommy shrugs. Feels the weight of Adam’s hand on his own. It feels solid. Good.

“I just thought it would be different. Coming back. Better or something, I don’t know.”

“Do you . . . do you want to go back? It would be ok, you know.”

Tommy shakes his head. His free hand reaches up to the scar. Rubs. “No. That isn’t better. I don’t want to go back.”

Back is worse.

Back means being an outsider.

A freak.

A victim.

Only worse. Somehow worse.

“Is anyone treating you badly?”

“No.” Tommy grips Adam’s hand a little tighter. It feels good. Solid. His anchor. “They’re too nice. Too nice to me.” He bows his head. “Stupid, I know.”

“No, I think I get it. It’s just . . . you have to give them time. They don’t know how to be around you yet. They’ll get it, though. You’ll see.”

Tommy can feel Adam’s thumb, the way it makes lazy circles against his skin.

Funny, how badly he had wanted to his this from Adam.

Now it feels like Adam is all he has.

“You know you don’t have to play tonight if you don’t want to. You don’t have to play until you’re ready.”

“No. I need this. I can do this.”

“Ok, if you’re sure.”

Tommy closes his eyes, nods. He is sure. He needs this. Needs to prove that he’s not completely broken. Not completely useless.

There’s silence then. Long and deep and lingering.

Tommy clutches Adam’s hand, his nails digging into Adam’s skin.

His anchor.

He doesn’t look up. Won’t look up.

“Do you think I should go to the police?”

He hears, feels, Adam’s intake of breath.

“I think . . . I think that’s a decision that only you can make, Tommy.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Adam scoots closer. Two hands now. Both of Adam’s hands are cradling his own.

“I think that if you go, there’s a good chance that this guy will go to jail. And that way, he won’t hurt anyone like he hurt you. But . . . but I think it’ll be hard. So, I don’t know.”

“Everyone will know,” Tommy says, whispers now, his voice dropping away. “Everyone will know what happened. What I let him do.”

“You didn’t let him do anything, Tommy. He did this to you. He took something from you. Forcibly took it. Jesus, he cracked your head open.”

“But I went out there. I went with him and I let him. I could have fought harder. I could have . . .”

He doesn’t finish. Tears take over where words fail.

He could have.

He didn’t.

Outsider.

Freak.

Victim.

Adam takes hold of his chin, gently, kind, and lifts his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You said no. You fought him. You didn’t do anything wrong. This was done to you. That piece of shit that hurt you is the only one to blame.”

Not his fault.

His doctor tells him that, over and over.

Funny, how the words mean nothing from her.

But from Adam . . . maybe . . .

There’s silence then.

The two of them together. Touching. Silent.

Tommy wipes at his eyes. Draws a breath. “I don’t want anybody else to feel like this. I don’t want him to hurt anyone else.”

“If you go, you’ll have so much love and support, honey. So much. We all love you. We love you so much.”

Adam.

His anchor.

Tommy scoots closer. “I think I will. After the tour. I think I will.”

Adam wraps one arm around him. Carefully, not too close. Not too tight.

“Then I’ll be here. Anything you need. I’m here. Every step of the way.”

Tommy drops against him. In a moment, it will become too much. Too close. Too much skin against skin.

But for now, it feels good. It feels right.

“You’re going to be ok, Tommy. You are so strong. You’re going to get through this.”

Tommy doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Just sits. Weeps. Holds on.

Adam never lies.

And if Adam says he’ll be ok . . .

Maybe one day.

He’ll no longer be an outsider.

No longer feel like a freak.

No longer be a victim.

Maybe.


End file.
